


The Invisible Man

by bilbroswaggins



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-20 12:16:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9490664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bilbroswaggins/pseuds/bilbroswaggins
Summary: When his twin brother goes missing, Alfred F. Jones vows to find him and avenge his kidnapping. But the trail runs cold, and he must team up with a private detective from his hometown to scavenge for clues to his disappearance. When people start showing up dead, Alfred finds himself to be at the center of a twisted web of lies, sex and suspicion. (Pairings: mostly RusAme, with some UsUK).





	1. Dog in his Doghouse

**Author's Note:**

> I have a lot of idea's about where I'm going with this -- and it's going to be an intense ride, lemme tell ya. This chapter is really short, but you can expect longer ones in the future. Please like and comment what you think!
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.

A few months back Alfred had gotten into some trouble, breaking into an abandoned warehouse with his brother. The twins had hopped the fence and busted the padlock in the side entrance, and once inside they were struck by the macabre beauty of the enormous place, lit strangely by their torches with many moving shadows. The building used to be an abattoir in the fifties and was permeated still with the stench of meat and blood. Sprawled in the middle of the vast room were long rows of stained tables, some on their sides. Hooks hung crookedly from the ceiling in the distance and looked like human silhouettes in the dark; and the tiled walls rose around them coldly, crumbling in places. Alfred and Matthew brought life and colour to their surroundings with their paint. There was twisted enjoyment in the whole activity, in the act of sneaking out of their home and being somewhere they were not supposed to be, doing something they were not supposed to be doing. Although, Matthew was shaking with nerves the whole time.

But, by some terrible twist of fate which would change them both forever, an officer was patrolling nearby after having dealt with a separate disturbance, and he noticed their car parked outside the looming, abandoned warehouse...

Matthew was the first to see the torch light at the other end of the spacious factory, searching for the intruders and quickly approaching. “A-Alfred,” he called nervously, his voice tiny and frail. “There’s someone here.” The moment Alfred became aware of the police officer’s presence, the man noticed the twins.

“Hey!” the policeman bellowed. “What are you doing here?”

“Run, Mattie,” Alfred urged. He registered that the policeman was far too close for them both to escape, trotting towards them with his gun raised, but he was not close enough to make out their faces obscured by the darkness. “You’re trespassing!” The policeman hollered angrily.

Matthew stayed rooted to place, trembling with fear.

“RUN!” Alfred screamed at him, pushing him roughly by the shoulders. Matthew cried out and dropped his spray can to the cement floor, at last bursting into action and sprinting away. Alfred didn’t remember much; he had thrown himself at the officer with the full force of his athletic, young body and grabbed his gun, throwing it skidding across the floor. The officer, after a great struggle where Alfred had struck him repeatedly in the face until he bled profusely from the nose, had at last jostled the boy to the ground and handcuffed him, cursing.

And Matthew was nowhere to be seen, not then and not afterwards.

Matthew hadn’t gone home; he didn’t show up to school. As Alfred was being taken away in the police cruiser he saw their car still parked beside the building. His brother had just...disappeared.

Alfred was eighteen and was charged as an adult. He managed to achieve fifty-three month probation after a month spent in jail. And during those four weeks, everyday he wondered why his brother didn’t write to him.

\---

Matthew Williams disappeared three months ago. No one could say where he went, or where they had last see him; there were a scarce few who could even recognize the slight boy when they were showed a picture of him.

Hard to recognize, he was, and hard to remember. It would be impossible to notice Matthew in a crowded place, and even to actively seek him out would be incredibly difficult. The light seemed to pass right through him. But, as his brother gazed at the photo of Matthew that he clutched in his white hands, and looked into his smiling, moonbeam face, he knew he had to achieve the impossible. And he would do it, if anyone could. Alfred F. Jones would find him.

“Alfred, look at me,” said the police officer. “Please,” he added politely.

“Huh?” Alfred mumbled. He sat in the office of the police chief of his hometown, in a cushioned chair. His brother was out there, wandering the vast world without a clue to how it could harm him, or was -- even worse -- chained somewhere in the dark, alone and scared. And here was Alfred, stuck talking to this frustrating man who leaned back on his desk, when his brother needed him desperately!

The chief cleared his throat. “Look at me, Alfred,” he said, less gently this time.

Alfred at last looked up at the blond headed man, the rebellious fire in him shooting off sparks in his eyes and warming his cheeks. Arthur, the chief of police and yet authority over nothing, noted the boy's sudden passion and ceased his leisurely admiration of Alfred’s handsome, blushing features. The policeman leveled his hard green eyes and looked stern.

“Do you want to tell me about the incident last night?”

“What incident?” Alfred wondered sarcastically.

“With the girl,” Arthur began waspishly, but stopped himself. Now he was the one to blush as he thought of what he would say next. “She was in your car and you...you…”

“I didn’t fuck her if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I wasn’t worried about that!” Arthur cried. “Albeit, you were kissing her, and she was half naked, yes? And then suddenly -- and I'm told, utterly without warning -- you throw open the car door and push her out! You humiliated her without care, and you must understand why that concerns me!”

“Her being ‘humiliated’ was not my fault! I drove off, and she burst into tears. How was I supposed to know that she would run into the closest building, sobbing? And,” he giggled despite himself, “that that building would be the diner where her mother plays bridge?”

“That’s rubbish. It’s winter outside, and she hadn’t a coat or skirt! Do you want me to write you up for this?” Arthur warned. This sobered Alfred slightly, and he said slowly: “But you’re not going to, am I right?” He smiled without humour.

Arthur glowered, his horrendous beetle brows drawing together. “I suppose I won’t,” he conceded doubtfully. The police chief doubled as Alfred’s parole officer, and he had found, during their time together, that he had quite the soft spot for blue eyes and freckled skin that looked like the stars kissing the night sky.

Admitting his weakness but not entirely willing to let him win this one, the green eyed man continued on: “She may press charges, you know.” He stood and moved to sit behind his large desk, folding his hands in front of him in an authoritative gesture. “And what could I do to stop her?”

Alfred scoffed, not scared in the slightest. “What would she charge me with, Artie? All I did was rob her of her skirt.” He laughed a little at his own joke, then continued more darkly: “Besides, that Russian freak wouldn’t dare. Natalya is insane, but she’s not stupid. People like me in this town and if she were to put me back in jail there would be hell to pay!”

To say people liked him was a stretch, they both knew. People sympathized with Alfred’s plight greatly -- losing his twin when he had no other family to speak of -- but they could only tolerate so much of his abrasive personality.

“You’re dangerously big-headed Alfred,” Arthur warned. “And only half correct. I went to see Natalya this morning. She looked like she had been crying all night. But I assume since she knew Matthew personally she didn’t think it right to turn on you, and refused to speak with me. She hid her face behind her scarf and shut me out. You can thank your brother for that.” He frowned at the memory of having the doors of the Braginski house shut rudely in his face. He had had to get all the information from the girl’s mother, who had always been the most reasonable of the Braginski clan.

Alfred grinned.

“Don’t be so happy, idiot. You know how Natalya is -- not so quick to forgive. One day, if she changes her mind, you may find a knife pressed to your back. And what will you do then, I wonder? And her mother, Katyusha, is quite protective and may not find Matthew to be a good enough reason to spare you,” he said.

Alfred’s face fell and he shuddered.

“But I have to ask you…why? Why would you do that to the girl?”

Alfred considered this for a moment, his eyes growing oddly shuttered. After a lengthy silence, his voice sounded out, creaky like old wood: “She knows something about Mattie.”

Arthur sighed loudly.

“No really, Arthur, she does!” He implored the chief to believe him. “She knew him. Arthur, no one knows Matthew. And she’s so stiff and buttoned up I knew I could only get the information out of her if she trusted me, if I gave her what she wants.”

“So I pick her up in my car, and I start kissing her. Next thing I know my fingers are inside of her, and she’s moaning, and I’m whispering in her ear: ‘Where is he? Where is he?’ and she says…” he broke off. “She says…” Alfred's voice was uncharacteristically small, as if what he was about to say had truly shaken him. Arthur could feel his heart thudding dully. “What did she say?” He asked.

“She said to me: ‘Don’t worry, he wanted to die.' And it was as if that fucking turned her on. She came all over my fingers, screaming, and I… I lost it Arthur. She was screwing with me. I grabbed her neck and I squeezed.”

Arthur leaned forward, all the blood drained from his face. He was pale as a sheet. “Alfred, stop.” Why was he telling him all this?! He didn’t want to hear it!

“She was turning blue and her eyes were popping out. And I looked at her, hating her so much, and she fucking smiled at me! So I let go. I threw her out of the car and drove away and got so drunk I couldn’t see straight.” He recalled seeing her look of utter rage as he hit the gas, with her angry tears drenching her hot face. He had spent the rest of the night trying to forget it.

Arthur put his head in his hands. The bloodshot eyes, the scarf she wore around her neck and face, fiddling with it. Oh God, Alfred had hurt her. He had really hurt her. When he plucked the courage to look up at his charge it was with a dawning sense of realization. This golden boy had removed the smiling mask, and he was just as haggard and violent as anyone else. A man beaten down by life.

“You won’t tell anyone, will you?” His almond shaped eyes were so earnest, almost tearful. “I only trust you with this.” He fed the chief flattery from the palm of his hand, and like an obedient pet the chief ate it up. 

“You can trust me,” he said hoarsely.

Alfred sighed, because he knew this not to be true. Matthew had been missing for far too long now, and the police just slept on his case. They had been sleeping on his case since it first came into their groping, entirely incapable hands. Arthur did nothing to help Matthew, and he wouldn’t allow Alfred to actively seek his brother out on his own because he claimed it was a breach of his probation. Alfred couldn’t disturb the people of that dreadful town because he had to be on his best behaviour. He felt like a doberman chained to his dog house, fat and stale-breathed.

Alfred had obeyed that ridiculous rule for two long months. He had misplaced his faith in the police force, and now nothing was being done. But now was the time for action, and Alfred would be taking charge.

Arthur floated back to his charge's side almost without realizing he was doing it. The younger man was lost in thought. His overly bright green gaze first searched Alfred's face, then wandered to a rather striking strip of pale skin beneath his ear, partially hidden by his mass of thick, honey colored hair. Unthinkingly, the chief leaned forward to gently kiss that delightful spot. He reveled in the touch of Alfred's smooth skin against his lips and felt excited frissons rack his spine. He never wanted to lose contact, but knew he must do so because anyone could walk by and witness the display. 

In the end, the chief didn't need to move away. Alfred had jumped up from his chair, nearly toppling it to the floor, and stumbled backwards away from Arthur. His face was twisted with ugly emotion.

“I knew you were queer, but I didn’t think you actually had the balls to act on it,” he said harshly. Arthur flinched with hurt, but Alfred couldn’t care less. Though he couldn't stand to look at the Englishman's pitiful face any longer, he had to do one more thing before he got the hell out of there. The younger man left the crumpled photograph of a smiling Matthew on the chief's desk. “I know he’s alive, but you won’t do anything to help me. If anything happens to him, his blood is on your hands.”

Arthur picked up the photo and saw Matthew’s violet blue eyes, of similar shape and colour to Alfred’s, but of entirely different disposition. There was a gentleness in those depths that Alfred lacked. He felt shame burgeon in his chest -- for kissing Alfred without permission, for failing Matthew, for everything.

“Get out,” he said to Alfred.

“With pleasure.” He had a Russian whore to deal with, anyway.


	2. The Partnership

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm in desperate need for a beta, guys, really I am. Please message me if you're interested. Also, please comment to make the author's day! Any suggestions for improvement are always welcome, of course. Thanks for reading!

Listen:

Alfred was sure of only one thing in the world, and it was this: His brother was alive. Matthew was out there somewhere waiting for Alfred to come to his rescue. He knew that Matthew was alive because this superstition stretched mere credulity and held a deep, resonating truth which was physical. Alfred could feel it in his bones. Though they may objectively be apart, he felt closer to his brother than ever, and at the height of his optimism believed it only to be a matter of time until they were reunited in the flesh. When he felt low, Alfred would reflect on all those instances he had ignored Matthew, or pretended that he forgot his brother existed entirely. 

There were times that Alfred longed to return to, moments when he would see Matthew and could reach out and touch him if he wanted to. Because in these times Alfred knew that his brother was safe: meek, murmuring and practically see-through, but safe. 

As he drove away from the police station, the uncertainty of what Matthew might be going through had Alfred clutching the wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. He soon reached the outskirts of town, and the rolling countryside passed by in the pearly light of clear, late morning. The sun was bright despite the season and the snow reflected its rays so that the whole world looked scrubbed clean and pure. Alfred’s foul mood and hangover were in stark opposition to the beautiful weather, but beneath his headache, nausea and worry lay his fierce determination to find his brother, and that’s what Alfred clung to. It was in his nature to do so -- to be the hero and save the day. 

So distracted was Alfred by his thoughts that he hardly noticed as he approached traffic. He slammed on the breaks so abruptly he nearly slid into the Honda in front of him. 

The line of cars ahead were hardly moving, in fact, they weren’t moving at all. Strange, seeing as there were only about five cars ahead of him and a stretch of open road after that. He noticed the people in the Honda in front of him were getting out of their vehicle. Alfred’s curiosity got the better of him and he took the keys out of the ignition and followed suit. 

The couple, a dark-haired young man and his girlfriend, murmured worriedly to each other as they picked their way down the icy hill to the right of the road. A sick feeling settled in Alfred’s stomach as he saw the knot of people gathered at the base of the hill. He looked at each face, seeing in their blanched expressions that it wasn’t an animal they were all staring at. Someone was hurt. Something instinctive in Alfred told him to hurry. He slid down the hill on his feet and pushed through the small crowd. He found himself staring down the barrel of a storm drain tunnel, misty and obscured by darkness. And at the foot of the tunnel, half in and half out, a figure lay face down and half frozen into the ice. 

It was apparent that it was a man, though he was of slight, feminine build. His legs were long and his arms were splayed on either side of him. His thin, pianist fingers dug into the ice as if he had been crawling out. Like a twisted halo, a bloodstain circled his head, and this head was shrouded by a cloud of light blond hair, matted with frozen blood. Obviously of similar length and style to how Matthew had last worn his hair… 

Alfred felt his heart plummet to the frozen earth, it’s beats dull and dampened, faraway. He stumbled towards the figure and collapsed to his knees beside it. His hands trembled as he reached to touch the body, which was hard and cold as ice. 

“What are you doing?” asked the dark-haired boy from the Honda, stepping forward hesitantly. His phone was to his ear and he sounded panicked. “He’s dead, for Christ’s sake. Can’t you see that? The authorities are on their way and they said not to touch the body!” Alfred found he had no voice to reply to him. A few others from the crowd shouted their protest, but Alfred was deaf to them. A voice in his head overpowered their cries, demanding to know: Was this Matthew? Was this thing his brother? 

With both hands, Alfred gripped the body -- he would not call it Matthew -- and pulled it from the ice with some effort, hearing the sickening tear of it’s frozen flesh. Grimacing, he continued on despite the twisting worm of nausea in his gut. Alfred had to know if this was his brother. He had to see its face. 

“Get off him,” hollered a thickly bearded man, stepping forward and forcibly pulling Alfred from the body. But it was too late, the damage was already done. 

Alfred fell back and the dead man lay with his face to the sky, frozen in a grotesque, bent position. The body was blue and ivory and half rotted. A woman screamed at the sight of the corpse and the bearded man was sick at his feet, narrowly avoiding vomiting all over Alfred. Not that Alfred would care. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the dead man’s face, if it could even be called as such. All the features were removed, leaving bloody cavities of mangled flesh in place of eyes, nose and lips. All the teeth where knocked out of its mouth, and Alfred stared into that black, gaping hole in horror, feeling as if it would swallow him up any minute. The poor man was so tortured and heavily disfigured, it appeared as if a wild animal had made his face a meal. But, his shirt was shredded and bloodied, his torso riddled with stab wounds, dozens of them. An animal hadn't done this. Someone had killed him. 

Alfred crawled out of the mouth of the storm drain on his hands and knees. He tasted something sour in his mouth, and he retched and retched, though his stomach was completely empty. He really felt for the first time the numbing cold of the day. And more than that, a chill that came from deep inside of him, like an icy hand that gripped his insides and would not let go. 

That wasn’t Matthew. His brother could never become something so gruesome. His brain was rejecting the mere possibility, pushing it as far out as possible, into the recesses and darkest corners of his mind. 

Alfred realized his hands were soaking in blood, and he scrambled to his feet. This time he didn’t need to jostle his way through the crowd because the people parted for him, with frightened or accusing looks, none of them wishing to touch the man who touched the tortured dead body.

As Alfred got in his car, he heard familiar sirens behind him as the police sped down the highway towards the crime scene. Damn, they were fast. Alfred briefly wondered if the chief was with them, but quickly decided he wouldn’t wait around to find out. Arthur would kick his ass from here to Timbuktu if he found him anywhere near anything suspicious, not to mention a murder this foul. 

Alfred drove around the stopped cars and floored it, wanting to get as far away from there as possible. His breaths were short and quick, like he couldn't get enough oxygen in his lungs. 

He felt hollow. 

He felt like he had left his heart back there on the ice. 

\---

Natalya sat on the chesterfield sofa reading an obscure, foreign magazine later that day. She was softly singing to herself. 

Alfred knew this because he had sidled up to the side of her very large brownstone house and was now discreetly peering into her dark living room through the window. The honey-blond was crouched in a bush. He had parked a block away to be extra sneaky, and he was rather proud of himself for his spy work. The cold nipped his nose and cheeks and made his complexion slightly ruddy. He narrowed his blue eyes at her suspiciously.

As her singing drifted through the window left slightly ajar, Alfred admitted to himself that her voice was quite nice, if not slightly hoarse from their encounter yesterday. Her slim, naked form was nearly visible beneath the sheer fabric of her dressing gown, and her long silver hair flowed over her shoulders and onto the peaks of her small breasts. The bruises he had inflicted on her slender neck were striking against her very fair complexion, and she looked as pretty and inviting as a fragrant, slightly battered rose. 

But the memory of those words she had whispered to him last night haunted Alfred, and came back with full, painstaking force at the sight of her.

He looked to her now and was repulsed. Hatred filled him in that moment, heavy as lead in his gut. He recalled the many hours he had spent the night before drinking deeply from the lie she had told him, sucking out of the bottle as much as the bottle sucked out of him. Worse, Alfred remembered how he felt when he saw the body earlier that day and how, for a moment, he thought those words she had told him were true -- that Matthew truly was dead. He felt ashamed of himself. 

But if Natalya really did know something about Matthew then Alfred would find out that day. Deciding that she was indeed alone, he prepared his argument to her once more in his head, envisioning himself bursting through the front door like an action hero and demanding answers. 

Then the unexpected happened. 

“You are a stalker?” A thickly accented voice sounded out behind him. “You crush on my little sister, yes?” 

Alfred let out a strangled cry of fright and whirled around, wild eyed. The blond who squatted in the bush stared at the bulky man who towered above him, large and imposing in a thick, tan coat that hung to his knees, a long scarf wrapped around his neck and massive booted feet. In his arms he held a bouquet of fiery orange tulips. His hair was platinum blond and his smile had a slight, jeering twist. 

But his eyes were what held Alfred’s attention. They were a murky violet, darker in colour than Matthew’s and curiously flat. Empty eyes. He could read nothing in them and or tell whether there was even a soul behind them. 

Alfred, initially arrested by the strange appearance of this man, then felt hotness flood his cheeks when he thought of how he must look at that moment. 

“Fuck no!” Alfred defended himself recklessly. “Like I would be interested in her!” He scoffed loudly, glaring at the man. 

Quickly realizing that he wouldn’t have the chance to talk to Natalya with her big brother there, Alfred got to his feet and started pushing past the large Russian. “Now get out of my way, fat ass,” he snapped. 

The Russian put a gloved hand to Alfred’s chest and shoved him with extraordinary strength to the window, holding him there unrelenting despite Alfred’s best efforts to resist him. Alfred’s indignant cry of: “What the fuck!?” was greeted by the man’s chilling, minuscule smile. 

“You shouldn’t disrespect Natalya,” he said lightly, conversationally. 

'Was everyone in the family psychopaths!?' Alfred wondered, astonished. 

“You’re crazy!” shouted the younger man, squirming in his grip. The large Russian pressed his body to Alfred's to keep him from moving too much. He was stiflingly warm and smelled very pleasant, and Alfred realized belatedly that it was the flowers crushed between them that were responsible for the sweet fragrance. Alfred’s blush hadn’t abated but grew three fold, and the Russian noticed this with a slight giggle. “Net, you’re crazy,” the man said almost fondly. 

They stared at each other, both stubborn and unwilling to give in, their faces inches apart. Alfred with his chin jutted out rebelliously, flushed. Ivan with a funny little smile. 

The strange moment was shattered as Natalya’s piercing cry could be heard from inside as she moved through the cavernous house, shouting something half in English and half in Russian. Alfred couldn’t understand her, but he recognized the use of a name -- Ivan -- and connected the name to the bastard who held him captive. 

Ivan reluctantly released his hold on Alfred, saying somewhat nervously: “Uh oh, Natalya has spotted me.” 

Thinking he would finally be left alone, Alfred let out a shaky huff of relief. Still, he bristled inside and his eyes shot daggers at the older man. “She’ll want to see us both,” Ivan continued, sighing. Alfred had to suppress the urge to kick and scream as he was hauled inside by Ivan’s rough grip on his arm. 

The front door was slammed behind them. Alfred wasn’t released from Ivan’s grip, which grew inexorably tighter. Ivan smiled languidly, realizing that the American resembled a cute little mouse caught between the needle-like fangs of a cat. The cat, Ivan Braginski, who enjoyed lazily playing with his food. 

The house stretched out before them in a magnificent expanse of polished mahogany and dark blue tile, with intermittent shafts of darkness and light. It’s lofty beams, sweeping staircase, and all-around baronial structure and furnishing resembled the inside of an old colonial house with a modern twist. Alfred remembered someone saying that Natalya’s mother, Katyusha, married an old, wealthy man when she moved here with her family and acquired his inheritance when he died. So it goes. 

Alfred prepared himself to see a very angry, and most likely knife wielding, Natalya, but was greeted instead by a smiling, ebullient Natalya. He didn’t know which was worse. He was now in unfamiliar and possibly equally as dangerous territory. 

“Hello, big brother!” Natalya smiled so wide it looked like it hurt. 

“Hello, Natalya,” Ivan said warily. He kicked off his snowy boots, urging Alfred to do the same, and then handed her the tulips to her extreme delight. “I apologize they are somewhat flattened. The American crushed them with his fat body and larger ego.” 

“My fat body? Buddy, look at yourself,” whispered Alfred venomously. The insult to his ego flew over his head. Ivan’s smile didn’t falter but those strange empty eyes flashed briefly with annoyance as he glared sideways at Alfred, and the grip on his arm constricted with bone-shattering strength. Alfred nearly whimpered, but caught himself in time. 

“I heard you had gotten hurt, so I thought them appropriate,” the Russian intoned, turning back to his sister and eyeing her bruises with an expressionless gaze. In the way his mouth twisted, though, he appeared somewhat angry. 

Alfred secretly hoped that Ivan wouldn’t guess that it was him who had hurt Natalya. The Russian would be difficult to beat in a fight, and although it would be immensely satisfying to punch that big nose of his, a hero couldn’t be bothered wasting his time in a useless brawl! He had bigger fish to fry. Although, maybe not bigger physically. 

The American was suddenly struck by a scary thought: what if Natalya exposed him as her attacker? 

Alfred looked at the girl, pleading with his eyes that she not tell Ivan what had happened last night. But Natalya wouldn't even look at him, her gaze was glued to the gift she had received from her brother.

“They are an expression of your love for me, so they are perfect!” she declared suddenly, having at last torn her tearful gaze away from the flowers. 

After countless bouts of intimidation and more or less forced "playtime" with her brother had proved unsuccessful, Natalya had turned to more discreet means of achieving what she wanted. The first being the use of her feminine wiles to seduce him. 

Alfred watched as Ivan’s face went from subtly threatening to outright terrified as Natalya wrapped him in a tight embrace, her chemise coming undone so that her naked bosom pressed firmly to his front, her arms wrapped vice-like around his neck. 

“N-Natalya--,” Ivan began weakly, at last letting go of Alfred. He tried to disentangle himself from her embrace, but she only squeezed him tighter, telling him how very much she had missed her big brother! 

She at last released him when Ivan had cleared his throat for the third time. His large hand shielded his eyes. He had turned very pink. “Y-You’re--” he tried, gesturing to her exposed front. 

She covered herself coyly, but the devious glint in her flat, gray eyes told Alfred that it was intended. 

Ivan, thinking it was safe, began lowering the hand he had clapped to his face. Natalya, who resembled a fox pouncing on unsuspecting prey, grabbed her brother’s face and kissed him full on the lips. 

Admittedly, she hadn’t completely abandoned her previous, more direct tactics. 

Ivan jerked his face away, wiping his mouth with his gloved hand. “I told you not to do that!” He cried boyishly. He avoided looking at Alfred’s astounded, and frankly, grossed out, expression. 

“Woah! Maybe not in front of the guest?” Alfred said, feeling immensely uncomfortable. Yeah, Alfred was close with his sibling, but not that close! 

Ivan murmured something unintelligible in response, caught somewhere between the desire to knock the American on the head for witnessing his embarrassment and terror that his sister would grab him again if he drew too much attention to himself. 

He had until then remained mostly unnoticed, but Natalya turned her attention to Alfred at that moment. “And what the fuck are you doing here, asslicker?” 

Alfred frowned at her, stuck out his tongue. “I have a couple questions for you.” 

She scowled and jutted out her chin haughtily. “And if I don’t want to hear them?” 

“You’re gonna hear them, and you're gonna give me some answers,” he ordered. The thick, wing-like arches of his brows drew together over fiery blue eyes. 'You owe me', his gaze seemed to say. 

“Natalya,” Ivan chided quietly, slowly beginning to recover from his embarrassment. “You can answer the American's questions. Besides, I think he likes you.” 

Natalya seemed peeved, but after a moment's hesitation she relented. With a jerk of her head, the two followed her into the house. 

\--- 

The farther he followed her into her home, the more Alfred felt he had stumbled into a snake pit. 

Natalya kept a firm hold on Ivan’s waist, much to Ivan’s apparent perturbation, as she lead them past an extravagant dining area, library and kitchen. Though the spaciousness and decor that surrounded them was astounding, the heavy curtains in each room were closed and the place appeared dark and foreboding. A dusty smell in the air had Alfred sneezing every few seconds. 

“Why is it so dark in here?” Alfred sniffled in between particularly loud bouts of sneezing. This house was like a haunted house from the horror movies, that had a little girl ghost living in it, or several bigger, meaner ghosts. God, Alfred hated ghosts. "Seriously, are you guys vampires or something?" 

The light haired, light skinned siblings both turned to look at him at precisely the same moment with the same irritated look in their eyes, and the effect was rather alarming. 

“No, we're not,” Ivan intoned. “Are you sneezy from the seven dwarves?” 

“Ha, ha, ha,” Alfred said ironically. “I just hope you haven’t brought me here to kill me.” His bespectacled gaze darted around him, simultaneously looking for ghosts and searching for anything he could quickly fashion into a wooden stake. 

Ivan sighed, only wishing it were so. He wondered why he had invited the American into their home, and he supposed it was because he was curious about what he had to say. Natalya hugged Ivan closer to her side protectively. 

“My blood wouldn’t taste very good anyway; well, it would probably taste amazing, but it wouldn't be very healthy! I eat cheeseburgers for every meal, ya see,” Alfred rambled on. He was for the most part ignored. 

Natalya herded them into the living room with the chesterfield sofa, where she had been sitting previously. For all the luxury there was a tense air to the place and all the furniture was very dark wood or leather. Alfred didn’t want to sit down, what he wanted most of all was Ivan to leave them alone so he could talk to Natalya in private. 

Instead, Ivan took a seat on the couch and extended his long legs out before him. He pulled a bottle of vodka out of his jacket and took a hearty swig. Alfred watched him incredulously, but the more he stared the more he realized how much sense it made. 

“So you’re a drunk?” Alfred asked. He grinned cheekily, as if it had all come together perfectly, like puzzle pieces. “That’s why you're so fucked up and weird!” He meant to voice this mostly to himself, but Ivan heard him -- on account of the fact that Alfred had next to no volume control -- and scowled. He took another mouthful of his drink. 

The Russian’s curiosity was quickly dwindling as he realized the American was an idiot with few interesting qualities. How disappointing. At least he would be a useful distraction so Natalya wouldn’t give him such a hard time. “I’ve never been drunk in my life,” was Ivan's sardonic reply. 

His sister settled in the spot beside him, a little too close for comfort. “So what is it?” Natalya clipped. 

Alfred glanced from between the sister and brother, not sure how much information to divulge. He settled at last on a direct approach, as was his wont. “Tell me what you know about Matthew.” 

Natalya exhaled sharply, tossed her head. “You’re in luck, motherfucker. The only information I have is that your brother was at one point in business with mine, and here he is.” 

Ha! He knew she had been lying about Matthew being dead!

But, wait...what? 

“What?” Alfred pointed at her chubby loaf of a sibling, whose lips were still wrapped around the rim of the vodka bottle, like a fat baby and his poisonous pacifier. “That brother?” 

“Matvey,” Ivan said cheerily, as his lips disconnected from the bottle with an audible ‘pop’. His eyes twinkled in sudden recognition, and his smile widened eerily. “Oh yes, I know him. You look like him.” 

“You know Matthew?” Alfred exclaimed, not bothering to fully consider what 'being in business with Ivan' meant. “How? H-he’s gone missing!” 

Ivan decided not to tell him how exactly he knew him, not yet. “That’s horrible,” he lamented, pouting sulkily. “He was a...good boy. Lost forever.” He giggled.

Before Alfred could ask what was meant by that, Natalya mentioned idly to Ivan: “You have blood on you.”

Alfred noticed for the first time that Ivan had the mark of a bloody hand print on his coat. He, Alfred F. Jones, must’ve left it there when Ivan had pushed him up against the window. His blood stained hands curled into fists at his sides. 

“I must’ve gotten it from a job I had earlier. You know how these things can get.” 

“Exactly what kind of business are you in?” wondered Alfred aloud. 

Ivan had the grace to look surprised. “Private detective.” 

Alfred’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, and answered the call absentmindedly. “Hello? I’m kinda busy right now,” he said, looking at the grinning Russian man with the blood on his coat. 

“Where the bloody hell are you?” shouted Arthur’s voice. 

“Calm down. What’s the matter?” 

“What’s the matter? What is the matter, I wonder?” Alfred envisioned Arthur stalking around his office, free hand gesticulating wildly in frustration. “The matter is that there was a dead body next to the 115 today, and a young man I know reportedly fleeing the scene!” 

“Well, you do know some questionable characters,” quipped Alfred, “being the Chief of Police and all…” 

There was silence, then:

“I want to see you, please.” Alfred could hear the strain in his voice as the Englishman tried desperately to remain calm. 

“Like I said, I’m busy.”

“Now, Goddammit!”

“No, not now. Maybe later,” said Alfred. “See ya, Artie!” He hung up. He hoped he wouldn’t pay too dearly for that later, but he felt he was finally getting somewhere in his investigation of Matthew's disappearance, and that was more important. 

“Who was that?” asked Ivan, his eyes alight with childish curiosity. 

“Arthur,” said Alfred. 

The gears in Ivan’s head began to turn, and he smiled. It always made him happy when opportunities fell into his lap like that. “Would you like to be my new client?” he asked.

Natalya couldn't believe what her brother had said. “What the fuck do you mean?” she exclaimed, to which no one responded; she prodded her bruises mindlessly, hating to be ignored. 

“I can’t pay you,” admitted Alfred reluctantly. The money he had received after his parent’s death was just enough to support him modestly. They had died in a car crash when he and Matthew were seventeen. 

“Forget about that.” Ivan smiled without kindness. “Currently our ambitions are aligned. I will find Matthew for you, provided you ask no questions about my methods.” 

Alfred was confused by the whole thing. Why the sudden interest in helping him? And what exactly was this man’s ambition? But Alfred was certain that, no matter what, he didn’t want to pushed out of the process entirely, like Arthur had done to him the first time. 

“No, I want to help you. This is a partnership, or no deal.” 

Natalya expected Ivan to pull out his pipe, or at least to go through with the investigation without the permission of the stupid American, if he so desired. Instead, he did something surprising. He agreed. 

Alfred beamed, and Ivan stood so they could shake hands. 

The truth was this: Ivan had a client who would pay him a great deal in return for information about Arthur Kirkland. That was his reason for coming in to town from the city where he lived; it was also his reason for taking Alfred on as a client. Arthur had his secrets locked up tighter than Alcatraz, Ivan knew. And from the way the honey-blond addressed the chief of police on the phone, it appeared he knew him personally. There was perhaps an advantage that could be earned through gaining the American’s trust, which was far too easy to come by. All Ivan had to do was help him find his brother. He had done much harder things in the past. 

Alfred, oblivious to any ulterior motives, shook the Russian’s hand enthusiastically. “So, where do we start?” he asked.


End file.
